Playing Halo
by Thanfiction
Summary: Unexpected doesn't mean bad. My response to a Destiel PWP challenge.


It began, as such things often do, with a kiss. Mouths pressed together, the experience still odd, though no longer exactly new.

Dean's lips were softer than his vessel's, though they did not taste of the unguents found on Daphne's mouth or the burnt sulfur of Meg's. They tasted of sharp, bitter adrenaline and testosterone and a little bit of blood and the lingering traces of toothpaste and microwave pizza and coffee and beer. The teeth were slick, the left upper canine still a little loose from the Wraith's blow, and he smelled of blowback and sweat, his facial hair catching against Castiel's to tug and rasp arrhythmic to clutching hands and hissed breath.

It was not a kiss of romance or tactics, as he had felt before. It was a kiss of need, hungry and pulling and shoving, and he allowed himself to be shoved back against the door of the motel so hard it should have bruised, his coat yanked from his shoulders, his tie jerked loose and two buttons popping from his shirt as callused hands didn't bother with niceties. It had been too long, churned too long against the edges of unspoken now unleashed. Dean's mouth was moving from his lips to his throat now, and he tipped his head back, feeling the door heat as he pressed his palms flat against it.

It felt good. More than good. Inhabiting a vessel had taught him that many things could cause physical pleasure; flavorful food, alcoholic intoxication, affectionate contact, sunlight on skin or the scent of a flower. This was different, and it frightened him.

For all that it had seemed sensible to address what Sam had called the elephant in the room, there were reasons he had never acted upon his desires before, and he was beginning to second-guess his ability to control himself. Using the vessel on the best days was like fighting a judo match in clothing six sizes too small without ripping a seam, and this could be...dangerous. There was a yank at his belt, hips ground against his groin, and he was taken by surprise, barely stifling a cry. The mirror over the cheap, water-damaged dresser cracked in four places.

"Dean..." The sound of his own voice startled him, shaking and gasped as the vessel's arousal intensified in response to the eager stimulus. The only response was a low moan - a growl really, short, ragged nails dragging the flesh of a newly-bared shoulder in a sensation that was distinctly pain and yet hotly pleasurable, and Castiel was forced to close his eyes, shoving Dean back with his hands still against the door. "We need to stop."

The pupils of the green eyes were widely dilated, his shoulders drawn high and erection bulging the denim of his jeans as he shook his head in frustrated confusion. "You said -" He cuffed the back of one hand across his mouth, the armor rising fast and sharp across the sudden look of betrayal. "This was your idea. You -"

He had backed off several paces, arms laced tight across his chest, the tension of the muscles straining the sleeves of the old, tattered t-shirt, and Castiel took a deep breath, forcing control over the vessel again. "I don't want to hurt you, Dean. This..." he hesitated, trying to find a way to make his friend understand. Perhaps, yes. He was on top of it enough. Castiel extended his hands as if displaying stigmata, showing the network of scorched, bloodless cracks across the palms. "My response was stronger than I anticipated. It's too dangerous."

The offense had changed to a kind of shock that was oddly adorable. "Holy crap." Dean let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck, then flinching slightly as he caught sight of the mirror. "You were that close to nuclear?"

"I was...losing control," he confessed awkwardly.

Dean was still staring at his hands, and he ran his tongue over his lips unconsciously, considering something for a long moment before he clapped his hands together, rubbing them briskly as his eyes flicked up to make hard, deliberate contact with Castiel's gaze. "Ok, then. I can take it."

He could not entirely help the skepticism in his look. "Dean, I'm an angel. You're -"

"Bred for a thousand years to be the prom dress of an archangel, right? Which is above even your pay grade." He was frightened, Castiel could see it, smell it, but there was arousal still as well, and the courage he had always so admired. "So I figure I can handle whatever it is you can dish out, and if not, you've fixed me up from Lucifer, so..."

Oh, by the name of the Father, he was going to do it. He didn't understand...or did he? Something about those eyes said he did, and if he did, then did that mean he also knew how hard Castiel had been fighting this very thing for years now, how it called to him, how impossible it would be to hold back another moment if it actually happened. "Then you..." He could barely force the vessel to comply with speech. The lamps exploded, plunging the room into a dimness barely pierced by the sliver of a streetlight at the top of the heavy curtains. Dean did not flinch. "You are granting me permission?"

Dean strode forward, grabbing the tie now loose around his neck and using it to pull him almost into another kiss. "Go ahead. Let's play Halo."

To an outsider, it probably looked like they kissed again. A passionate, deep kiss at first glance, but at the second, there would have been tell-tale signs that something was different. The rigidity of Dean's spine, the way that the larger man was being effortlessly held an inch off the ground by hands at his jaw that weren't even taut enough to pop the tendons on their backs, the light shining fiercely from beneath both sets of closed lashes and beginning to glow from their skin itself. But still, it would have looked mostly like a kiss from the outside.

From within was another matter.

Castiel surged into him, barely maintaining enough restraint to prevent his body from annihilating in flaming trails of raw energy. But he needn't have worried. Dean could handle it. He was right. He'd been made to take an archangel, and he could handle a Seraph with enough room to spare that he was still fully there, and that elevated it beyond his wildest dreams, because this, this was intimacy.

They were truly one, because the openness of the connection meant that Dean's own soul had overflowed in part to Castiel's vessel even as Castiel rippled along the lines and clusters of nerves and spine and brain and into dimensional places that didn't even exist in most men.

He could trigger and control every sensation, process, action of Dean's body, and he luxuriated behind the folds of the central Sulcus, sliding slow and long all the way to the tips of his fingers. Firm pressure and breathy whispers of touch, a shiver of chill and waves of warmth, lavishing extra stimulation on the digital, cranial, and ilioinguinal nerves. He was rewarded in turn by sharing the experience of the very feelings he created, and the arousal was like nothing else he had ever known, all the keen self-awareness of masturbation with all the satisfaction of pleasing anoth-

_Nor molap nor quasahi oe crimi_, Dean had figured it out.

It was the last thing he had ever expected, and there was none of the finess of a being who had been born to the capacity to so inhabit another, nor the practice of over four years in one vessel, but the clumsiness was made up for by a fierce enthusiasm, and Castiel felt his back arch, his vessel shudder under its own onslaught of sensation.

And those were the chapped lips of his vessel parting but Dean's laugh, and those were Dean's strong thighs that clenched and trembled with Castiel's pleasure, and they were a single soul and consciousness but still each their own, and it wasn't just the incredible physical pleasures, but Dean himself that wrapped over and within and around and through him and brought the intensity of the angel's blood tears to thick salt at the corners of both sets of human eyes.

He had known it, felt it at some instinctive level the first time he had laid a hand upon the Righteous Man turned Hellion, but it was so much more true now than it had been then, or perhaps he had seen this then and that was what had given him the courage to strike out on such a precarious road. They were so very alike, he and Dean, in so many more ways than two such creatures should ever have been capable of. He knew so many of their shared wounds already - the weight of duty and the panacea of obedience and the scars of a father absent and omnipresent - but he had never had such access to Dean's joys which he kept locked and guarded so much dearer.

A brother's laugh, free and deep and real, doubled over and sobbing. Playful wrestling matches that pushed your skills just enough to matter. Watching the sun rise after a night of battle barely survived, too keyed up to sleep, singing victory songs and finding the poetry in the words that would only seem so profound in that moment. The pinprick glory of a molten black summer sky crowning an open, virgin field of wildflowers and bees and crickets and prairie wind. Being loved. Being good enough. Being free. Being part of something.

Part of each other now, and those were his wings bursting wide from both sets of shoulders, and he laughed into Dean's shock, letting him see that no, he didn't have two pair, he had three, he just had never found need to show more than one. Showing more than one was...vulgar. Just because everyone had them didn't mean you simply display them like -

_So basically, I got your cock out._

His response was to unfurl the third set, the stabilizers that sat just above his hips at the dip of his back, and Dean moaned at the utterly foreign pleasure. And oh, it was pleasure. He hadn't had them out in so long, never in the presence of another, and Castiel luxuriated in stretching and fluttering them, guiding Dean along the nerves and structures and showing him what felt good and what didn't, how to move them and balance...but he was quick, very quick, and tied in to the instincts of one who had been created with them, and the tables were soon turned.

The wings were incorporeal when he inhabited the vessel, only manifest when he was in his true form, and it had never occurred to him to try to touch something or someone with them, but the same energy that could block light waves could also stimulate nerves already heightened past all normal awareness, and he felt the touch of the feathers on his face as Dean curved the superior wings around them, running a deep, throbbing warmth along the length of them that rattled the feathers like a breath of breeze.

Their lips came together again, and he passed a hand down Dean's thigh, splitting the seam of the jeans effortlessly and stripping them away. Dean startled a moment, then did the same, and a ragged line and a little too much singe hardly mattered now that they were naked against each other in every way; spirit, body, mind, and soul.

It had started with a kiss, and it ended with a burst of raw ecstasy that shattered every piece of glass in the motel. It ended with shocked, embarrassed laughter, an owner's memory modified and money left, piling into the Impala with their hair still standing on end and clothing too-hastily restored. It ended still flushed as they left a voicemail for Sam and decided to stop at the drivethrough on the way to the next motel, with a look of shared surprise when Castiel could taste Dean's fries and Dean the onions on Castiel's burger. It ended with Dean sticking out his tongue and Castiel flexing his wings just enough to make him flush and shift at the memory.

It ended, as such things often do, with another kiss that promised it hadn't ended at all.


End file.
